


human sacrifice and mass hysteria

by pearwaldorf



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Animal Rescue, First Time, M/M, heavy handed metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-19
Updated: 2014-12-19
Packaged: 2018-03-02 04:14:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2799179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearwaldorf/pseuds/pearwaldorf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It's bad enough that everybody here in the bloody south thinks that I'll kidnap them and use them for blood magic, it seems a bit over the top for them to think I'm cruel to tiny fluffy animals as well."</p>
            </blockquote>





	human sacrifice and mass hysteria

**Author's Note:**

> Patho and V made me ship it. I'm just paying them back. Thank you to the other members of Team Cullen's Awkward Boner for cheering me on. I'm sorry there's less awkward boner than I promised.
> 
> The title is from [Ghostbusters](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O3ZOKDmorj0).

Cullen does not pay attention to the cats around Skyhold, save to avoid them. The felines are, as they all are, working for the success of the Inquisition in their own way. They keep the rats and mice out of the grain that makes their meals, which sustains them all, so that the workers may work, the soldiers may fight, the advisors plan, and the Inquisitor set forth the path they all take. Everything has its place in Skyhold, and he is loath to keep them from their duties.

He opens the door to what will be the armory, once the Inquisitor finds enough stone and wood to complete it. For now it is dark and unfinished, full of dust and old boxes. He hears a voice from the second floor. It sounds like Dorian.

"Come now Julien, if you don't drink your milk how will you grow strong like your mother? Who will harass the rodents then, hmm? You have a legacy to uphold! You are the scion of a fine line of ratters, which I have to admit is much more useful than a magister, killing parasites as opposed to being one, suckling on the withered teat--”

Cullen comes up the stairs to see Dorian sitting on the floor, attempting to feed an orange kitten from a bowl of milk. He looks up and sees Cullen, and probably would have started were it not for the kitten on his lap. He coughs, trying to make it seem casual.

"Its mother was run over by a cart. Sadly she was a much better mouser than traveler. I couldn't very well let it starve. It's bad enough that everybody here in the bloody south thinks that I'll kidnap them and use them for blood magic, it seems a bit over the top to for them to think I'm cruel to tiny fluffy animals as well." The kitten mews piteously, a small and weak sound. Dorian has an expression on his face that Cullen might charitably interpret as concern. It cries again and Dorian’s face moves towards actual alarm. It is a surprising look for him, and he wonders what else gets locked away behind that facade of indifference. He sits down and pulls the bowl closer.

"I have found that a rag works better than hoping baby animals will lick from a bowl. If you don't have one, dripping the milk from your fingers works as well." 

"So how does the tactical advisor of the Inquisition know so much about the caretaking of tiny mewing things? Do they teach that in templar school along with how to be smug and pious? A simple way to win over the common folk?" Cullen does not give into his irritation and bites back a retort when he hears the note of strain in Dorian’s voice. He would not have expected the peacock from Tevinter to display such worry towards anything besides himself, but he has learned to be surprised at many things since joining the Inquisition.

He dips a finger into the bowl and holds it above the kitten's mouth. It laps up the milk enthusiastically and is soon asleep, belly round and full. Dorian hovers over the kitten protectively, near enough that Cullen can see the rise and fall of his breath and feel the heat off his body. The concern that was previously there has gone, his body looser and easier than it was before. (Distantly, he wonders when he became familiar enough to notice such things.)

"I grew up outside a small village in the Redcliffe arling. My siblings had a fondness for bringing home small orphaned things, and I was, ah, recruited into helping." He hopes he sounds casual, nonchalant. Not that he has any reason to be discomfited. It is only then that he notices how close they are, their knees almost touching. He scoots back, not enough to be rude, but enough that Dorian isn’t quite so _there_. It is one thing to be assaulted by his... excess of personality elsewhere, but in some ways, this quiet presence is even worse; the way his eyes are invited to linger on the line of Dorian's shoulder and his finely muscled arm, the curve of his jaw as he stares at the sleeping kitten. Dorian reaches out a finger to stroke its head. 

"Is that so? You are a man of varied and surprising talents, Commander." Dorian's voice is quiet, as to not wake the kitten, but there is something else behind it. It takes him a moment to realize it’s the same sort of tone Leliana uses when she's looked at something for a long time, but through circumstance or a change in perspective, some new detail emerges. It is oddly, uncomfortably flattering in ways Cullen does not wish to explore at this juncture. He reaches out his hand to pet the kitten’s stomach. It is soft as down and purring in its sleep.

“You are doing a kind and good thing. Many people would not have bothered, or found someone else to take care of it. I respect that.” Dorian turns his head away. Andraste, he’s actually blushing. Cullen really did think that a giant magic hole in the sky was the strangest thing he’d seen to date, but apparently he was wrong. 

He chooses to say nothing and continues petting the kitten, even though there’s something productive he could probably be doing. He is a very busy man, after all, with many pressing matters to attend to. But it is quiet here, with nobody demanding his attention or even presence, and it is so unspeakably rare that all he wants to do is sit for a good long time.

Which is of course the reason he hears a messenger yelling his name outside, at that exact moment. 

“Duty calls, Commander. Or in this case, bellows.” Dorian tips his head towards the stairs, and Cullen moves to get up, his legs and back protesting. He is not as young as he used to be, and there are some things he regrets about that. Dorian catches his arm before he does. “Before you go though. I would prefer that you keep this, ah, little interlude between us, if you please.” His voice is still soft and low, and inappropriately intimate. Cullen wonders if being a walking innuendo is an inborn talent or something one becomes after many years of practice.

“I would never dream of shattering the illusion that you cared about anything but yourself.” Dorian smiles conspiratorially. A secret then, something shared between only the two of them. He does not know how he should feel about this.

“Then I’m glad you understand. Now go, before that messenger passes out calling your name. Or maybe that’s something you’re into, I’m not judging.” Dorian squeezes his arm before letting him go, the mask back in place. 

“Good _day_ , Master Pavus.”

“And to you, Commander.” He sketches a mocking salute as Cullen goes down the stairs.

Outside, blinking in the suddenly bright light, Cullen lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Later, the Inquisitor has to ask him a question three times before he goes “Hmm?” and apologizes. She chuckles, leaning her considerable bulk against the war table. 

“I can only welcome anything that distracts you from your duties like this. You work too hard sometimes.” He rubs his forearm where Dorian touched him and wonders if the Mark feels anything like this, whispers of phantom heat and feeling creeping in when he should be concentrating on other things. It is unwelcome and perturbing. 

“You should be careful what you wish for, my Lady Herald. It may come to pass.” She smiles, enigmatic and amused. 

“I’m aware of my position, Commander. I always am.”

\--

Cullen is a man who takes his duties seriously, but the one indulgence he allows himself is to go visit the kennels after particularly trying days, which lately have been more often than not. The Inquisition’s forces are a diverse (some would say motley) mix, unused to working with dissimilar groups. Shared ideals or even fear are excellent for bringing soldiers together, but the only thing that makes them effective is discipline and practice. Provided they are even willing to work together. Building bridges and reminding people of common connections are part of Josephine’s wheelhouse, not his. He underestimated how head-splittingly difficult it would be trying to convince his current assortment of troops that no, the mages will not seek vengeance upon the former templars as soon as their backs are turned, nor will the templars attack the mages; and yes everybody, the mercenaries have been paid sufficiently that they will not abandon the field when the fighting gets thick. 

He feels like he’s been at the kennels on a near daily basis, but it is a relief to be able to make at least one thing in this world happy simply by being there, and know it will be loyal. Things would be so much easier if everybody were dogs. He rubs the dog's head, right on the ridge between its eyes and it sighs happily, butting against his hand. Yes, definitely easier.

The door to the kennel crashes open and Dorian walks in. Cullen hopes the Inquisitor never brings him along on missions that require any measure of discretion or quiet.

“Since we are somehow completely out of messengers and small children, Leliana bade me fetch you for… something. She was not clear, but you should go to the war room. At your convenience.” He stops short, a strange expression on his face. "Should I leave you alone?"

"Sit down, if you like. I would welcome the company." Cullen says, and is surprised to discover he means it. He never, ever shuts up, especially about himself, but beneath the torrent of words there is a sharp, curious mind that is honestly compelling. Dorian also seems slightly uncomfortable around the kennel and the dogs, and it is oddly pleasing to see him discomfited. He perches on the bench next to Cullen. (It is perhaps small of him, but the satisfaction outweighs any twinges of guilt he may feel about it.) The dog, sensing the possibility of a new friend, noses Dorian's hand. He jerks it back.

"Ah that's cold! And remarkably wet." The dog goes back to Cullen when it is rebuffed, and he scratches it behind the ears. Dorian watches him for a moment.

"Why am I not surprised this is where Leliana told me to find you? You are an embodiment of every Fereldan stereotype, down to the dogs and fur and mud. Were you one of those refugees who considered being called ‘dog lord’ a mark of pride in Kirkwall? I would bet my staff on it.” Cullen continues petting the dog, and it wriggles happily. At another point in his life he would have been insulted by such remarks, perhaps angered. It feels good to be able to move past such things. He also wonders when Dorian’s needling became familiar, almost affectionate, the way Cassandra and Varric bicker endlessly but are the first to leap to each other’s defense in a fight. 

“I was never technically a refugee. I was sent to the Kirkwall Circle after… distinguishing myself in the Blight. And there’s no mud here.”

“That’s still not an answer.” Dorian crosses his arms. 

“What insult is there in loving dogs? They are faithful companions, and steadfast in battle. Also warm on cold nights." Dorian's lips twitch, like he’s trying to hide a laugh. Cullen gently pushes the dog in his direction.

“I’m not going to make you do anything you don’t want, but she’s friendly. Let her sniff your hand.” Dorian looks dubious, but extends his hand, palm out. The dog licks it and he starts petting it, a little awkwardly at first, but soon adjusting. Its tail thumps against his legs, and he does a poor job at hiding that he’s a little charmed. 

“I find that dogs are excellent judges of character. If I had my way, Josephine would keep a dog in her office and we could decide alliances based on whether the dog liked them or not. It would be so much simpler.” Dorian has moved on to scratching its side and it leans against him, radiating happiness and pleasure. 

“Character I don’t know about, but this one has obviously excellent taste. Isn’t that right?” Dorian continues talking the sort of nonsense humans say to animals. Cullen allows himself to feel smug, just a little bit, before he realizes Dorian has stopped petting the dog and centered his attention on him. There is a seriousness there he hasn’t seen before, a focus that makes his breath catch. 

“I considered punching you to remove that smirk from your face, but I think it would be more pleasant for all involved if I kissed you instead. Don’t you agree?” Cullen has repeatedly avoided considering this possibility, both in and out of his bed. He cannot afford any distractions, not in his position. But said distraction is very difficult to ignore when he is _right there_ , willing, offering. He fervently hopes that nothing terrible comes of this and presses his lips to Dorian's. 

Their first kiss is tentative, exploratory. His mouth and tongue are warm. Now knowing the lay of the land, so to speak, Dorian is bolder, more insistent in his attentions. He kisses like he wants to leave bruises with his lips, using one hand to grip Cullen’s mantle, the other resting at his nape. There’s weight at the back of his neck: enough to feel anchored, but light enough that he could break away if he wanted. He feels good right where he is though, a tangle of lips and tongues and hands touching bodies. Dorian stops for a moment, and Cullen makes a noise, needy and surprised. It does not escape unnoticed, judging from the way Dorian looks exceedingly pleased with himself.

“As lovely as this is, if you wish to take things further, I require something a little less rustic. You Fereldans may consider a kennel acceptable, but I’m hoping for at least a nearby hayloft.” Cullen gets up and opens a door. There is a tiny room here, for when the kennelmaster can’t leave the dogs. Dorian looks into it. 

“An actual bed! You certainly know how to make a man feel appreciated, Commander.” He gently pushes Dorian into the room and shuts the door. Dorian reaches to unclasp Cullen’s mantle and makes a low, frustrated noise when he can’t find the catch. It should not be as arousing as Cullen’s body seems to find it.

“Did you intend on spending the rest of your life celibate? Because your choice of clothing makes me think you consciously committed to this.” 

“Just shut up and help me pull these off,” Cullen snaps. Pieces of armor clatter to the floor and buckles (Maker, _so many buckles_ ) are unfastened, and finally, eventually, they are both divested of their many pieces of clothing. Dorian looks him over from top to toe. A smile, slow and appreciative, crosses his face. Cullen understands intellectually that he is considered attractive, but it is another to be exposed like this, cool air against his skin, with another person taking in the sight of his body.

"Salve, bellus,” Dorian murmurs as he steps closer. He is warm, and the way his hands and mouth roam over Cullen's body is intoxicating. He is surprisingly methodical in his approach, teasing, nipping, sucking until he gets a reaction. Cullen can feel the pleased smirk against his neck as he throws his head back in response to a bite (gentle, and then not, and then something else entirely as Dorian runs his tongue over the spots where his teeth were earlier) and the huff of satisfaction when a gasp is wrung out of him, despite his best efforts to stay quiet. 

He’s hard now, has been for a while, and he presses himself against Dorian’s hip with a movement that is assuredly not rutting, even when Dorian pushes back. They slide together for a few moments or minutes, he’s not sure, before Dorian drops to his knees and takes Cullen into his mouth. He’s past caring when he hears the whimper escape his throat, a non-concern when all he can concentrate on is slick heat and a steady, insistent tongue moving up and down his cock. 

Tentatively, he touches Dorian’s hair, threading his fingers through it when Dorian makes a little noise at the back of his throat that reverberates down his length. It feels so good his knees want to buckle, and he twitches forward a tiny bit before catching himself. Dorian interprets the movement as a challenge, digging his hand into Cullen’s hip and pulling him deeper. There is something fiercer, more intense about the way Dorian moves around him, and it’s not long before he comes, so hard it’s almost violent. 

When he comes back to himself, he sees that Dorian has stood up, a look on his face that says he is pleased with his work. Cullen pulls him in for a kiss, licking the sour-salt-bitterness out of his mouth. Dorian moves Cullen’s hand between his legs, a gentle but pointed reminder. He’s slick with precome already, but the way Dorian’s throat moves as Cullen brings his fingers to his mouth is most gratifying, as is the gasp he makes when he wraps his hand around Dorian’s cock. It’s not long before he spills over Cullen’s hand, his breath ragged and shaky. 

Dorian rests his forehead on Cullen’s shoulder for a moment. His hair is damp and they both smell of sweat and sex. Dorian laughs softly.

“We never did make it to the bed.” He glances at it, considering. Cullen falls on top of it, wrinkling his nose when it sends a cloud of dust in the air. Dorian lays down next to him, in a less dramatic fashion.

“There. We made it.” 

“Although not quite in the manner I was hoping.” Dorian leers exaggeratedly and Cullen laughs, feeling lighter than he has in a while. 

“If that is something you intend, I’m going to need a nap first.” Suddenly Cullen notices he is very tired, but in a good way. 

“That’s not a terrible idea. It may be the first good one you’ve ever had.” Dorian stretches out on his side of the mattress and closes his eyes. Cullen thinks he should attempt some sort of retort, but he is asleep before he can think of anything remotely suitable. 

(He must never let Dorian know he let him have the last word on purpose. It would set a terrible precedent.)


End file.
